


A Tailor’s Bench

by ConceptaDecency



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Bottom Garak, Dominance, Imagination, M/M, PWP, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-24
Updated: 2018-10-24
Packaged: 2019-08-06 22:19:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16396163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConceptaDecency/pseuds/ConceptaDecency
Summary: How do you get through the dullest afternoon ever?(Formerly titled ‘A Tailor’s Bench, a Willing Friend, and a Bit of Imagination’.)





	A Tailor’s Bench

**Author's Note:**

> Cardassian sex stuff taken _a la carte_ from tinsnip's [ Speculative Cardassian Reproductive Xenobiology](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1719479).

It’s the dullest day imaginable. Running one’s own tailoring business doesn’t have the thrilling ups and downs of his former job, but at least normally there is scope for creativity and strategy (of the business variety) and interaction with others. But today his books are all in order. The displays have all been planned and arranged and dusted off and arranged and arranged again. The orders to his suppliers have all been put in. He’s had no customers all day, no meetings with suppliers, and his weekly lunch with Doctor Bashir isn’t for another two days. In fact, he hasn’t exchanged more than a polite hello with another being since yesterday afternoon. And to make it all just supremely, perfectly dull, today he’s just hemming trousers. Five pairs, all with the same uninspiring cut and fabric, for Ensign Exham.

And then the doctor saunters in. Garak tries to hide his delight.

“Hello, Garak. Are you busy?”

“Hello Doctor. Not particularly. Can I do something for you?” He smiles but does not get up from his workbench.

“Are you alone? No one in the back?” 

“I’m quite alone, Doctor.” 

“Computer, engage lock and window shades of Garak’s Clothiers, authorisation Bashir 237GA.”

The windows darken and there’s a soft ‘whhhsh’ indicating the door is now secure.

“What are you doing, Doctor?” Garak drops his work and stands up, leaning forward on his hands. He is taut, alert and at the ready.

The doctor is already on the other side of the workbench. He mirrors Garak’s stance. Their faces are close. 

“Garak, I am having the dullest day in the Infirmary. I thought maybe you were having a dull day too.” 

“...I am, as a matter of fact.”

“So you won’t mind if I bend you over your workbench and fuck you senseless?” 

*

No, wait, back up. That’s not right at all. It’s deeply thrilling, but it’s not the doctor. Doctor Bashir can be direct, but he’s at least got a little grace. He’s not an animal. Garak sighs. Probably. Not that he’d know. 

*

“Garak, I am having the dullest day in the Infirmary. I thought maybe you were having a dull day too.” 

“...I am, as a matter of fact.”

“I think I know a way we can relieve the boredom.”

“Oh?” 

*

No, no, this isn’t right either. This ridiculous coyness is cloying, puerile. Like a poorly written holosuite sex romp. Come on, Elim, do better.

*

“Garak, I am having the dullest day in the Infirmary. I thought maybe you were having a dull day too.” 

“...I am, as a matter of fact.”

The doctor slips his hand over Garak’s. 

“I’ve been thinking about you a lot lately. What you said at lunch last week...”

*

And...what? What is he supposed to have said at lunch that would set a flame burning in the doctor’s loins such that he’s charged into the shop, intent on seduction? Nothing springs to mind. Has this interminable mindless work dulled his wits? He really does need to find more mentally stimulating things to do, and soon. 

But as for the other kind of stimulation, he may as well get on with it. No need for a wordy preamble if it’s all in his head anyway. 

Not entirely regretfully, he leaves aside the famous Cardassian loquaciousness and heads down the road of pure filth. 

*

The windows darken and there’s a soft ‘whhhsh’ indicating the door is now secure.

“What are you doing, Doctor?” Garak drops his work and stands up, leaning forward on his hands. He is taut, alert and at the ready.

But he’s not prepared for what comes next. 

The doctor is somehow beside him. Now he’s pressing Garak into the wall with his full strength, hot and smooth and wiry. They are chest to chest. The doctor’s hands are planted firmly on the wall plate on either side of Garak’s head, and he’s nudging Garak’s thighs apart with his knee. Garak is letting him do it, too. And the doctor may not be as solid as Garak, but he is taller, so Garak, surprised, turns his head up slightly to meet the doctor’s intense gaze. 

“You want this, don’t you, Garak.” It’s not really a question. The doctor, leaning forward so their faces are intimately close, is all throaty certainty. 

“...yes, Doctor.” Garak can feel a rush of warmth, and suddenly he is longing, aching to be touched and caressed and filled. 

“Good,” says the doctor. 

He descends on Garak, and his mouth is even hotter than his body. They are kissing, the doctor’s experienced tongue darting and invading his mouth so that Garak can hardly keep up, and the doctor’s leg has fully parted Garak’s thighs. His knee on the bulkhead, he presses up slightly so that Garak is a little unsteady, almost forced to grind against him, hands braced behind himself on the wall. The doctor now gives his full attention to every scale up and down Garak’s neck, biting hard and licking at the sensitive crevices in between. He is possessive, biting aggressively from his more powerful position, looming over Garak and caging him with his arms and pressing him back. Garak throws back his head and fully exposes his neck, eyes closed. He doesn’t care what the doctor does to him. It is exquisite, the combination of the doctor’s obsessive attention and the the pleasure of the sensitive scales on his genital lip rubbing against the hardness of the doctor’s firm leg, the thick fabrics between them serving both to heighten and dull the sensation in equal measure. There is definitely going to be a wet spot on the doctor’s uniform. Garak is caught between the desire to continue the writhing and pressing and rubbing and the longing to know what the doctor’s smooth, naked leg would feel like against the hypersensitive scales of his rapidly opening genital slit. 

The doctor makes the decision for both of them. He jogs Garak just slightly, enough to make him gasp at the impact but not enough to really hurt him, and grinds his own hard, heated genitalia into Garak’s leg, just below the hip.

“You’re really enjoying yourself,” he chuckles, his breath steamy in Garak’s ear. “But I don’t have a lot of time, and I think we need a change of pace.” He lowers his leg and steps back, and Garak, adjusting himself so he can stand properly without the support of the wall or the doctor, immediately feels cold. 

But now the doctor’s confident surgeon’s hands are on his hips and pulling him forcefully towards his tailor’s bench, a step away. He allows the doctor to turn him around and badger him into bending over the bench, arms out in front, legs splayed. The doctor plasters himself onto Garak’s back and grinds into Garak’s buttocks. Garak has braced himself against the table surface and pushes back needfully, tilting his hips and spreading his legs so the doctor’s hardness meets his completely receptive _ajan_ through the fabric. The doctor gently lifts a bit of hair that has fallen over Garak’s ear.

“Trousers down, Garak, don’t you think?” he murmurs, and grinds in one last commanding twist.

Garak is nearly shaking as he reaches for the clasp at his waist and releases it. As soon as they’re loosened, the doctor yanks the trousers down so they’re mid-thigh, just low enough to reveal that Garak is dripping and engorged and flagrantly _ready_ for the doctor, just high enough so Garak has very little trouble keeping his legs spread. The doctor exhales loudly and appreciatively. He pushes Garak’s tunic up from where it has been covering the top of his buttocks, and cool air washes over. It’s bracing and exciting and it makes him long for the doctor’s heat to fill him completely, but the doctor is utterly fascinated with his _ajan_. His curious, skilful fingers probe every sector, gently brushing the most sensitive inner lip scales with the tips, teasing the nerve endings just beyond by fluttering his fingers against then, massaging the wet, muscular inner walls with strokes and circles, and finally pushing into the dripping, waiting opening, exploring first with one, then two digits, slipping in joint by joint, gliding in and out. Garak tries to guide him with moans and gasps and little affirming yelps. The doctor is very intuitive, but he does not seem to notice or care that Garak has not yet everted, though it’s a monumental effort at this point to restrain his _prUt_. Garak would love nothing more than to be completely possessed by the doctor right now, impossible if his wayward organ makes an appearance, and so all of his will is being spent on controlling it. 

“Doctor, please,” he manages to choke out, then has to bite his lip for a moment. “Are you ever planning to...?”

“Aren’t we eager?” The doctor’s tone is teasing, and there's the briefest tense second wherein Garak fears he’ll be refused satisfaction out of sheer perversity, but, thank the heavens, he doesn’t feel either of the doctor’s hands for a moment, and then he’s never been so grateful to hear the swift, buzzy zip of Starfleet regulation fastening. “Stand on your toes, spread your legs a little more, and lean forward,” the doctor commands, and brings Garak’s hips to the perfect tilt with the press of a palm on his back. 

The penetration is searing and intense. Garak exists as nothing more than a vessel to be filled as the doctor slides steadily into him. The doctor breathes raggedly until he is up to the hilt, and his hot-blooded Terran warmth spreads through Garak. Then the hand he was using to direct himself into Garak finds Garak’s right hip, a mirror of his other hand already on the left, and, steadied, he begins with slow, even thrusts. 

Garak wouldn’t want to stop even if he could, but the groans and gasps he makes encourage the doctor to thrust harder and faster and at just the right angle, so Garak is soon a mess of hot, wet, quivering nerves, a dull, throbbing feeling of being on the verge of explosion coiled between his legs. He knows he is screaming and mewling desperately, and he tries to suppress the sound as best he can, but the effort only serves to heighten the excruciating tension as he gets closer to pure release. The poorly-muffled noises seem to excite the doctor, too, because one hand grasps urgently at Garak’s hip, fingers clasping at his scales, while the other has found its way to his shoulder and is pressing Garak into his tailor’s bench. The thrusts are escalating in intensity, becoming staggery, crashing, and it’s enough to send Garak over the edge. He yells gutturally as the tension erupts and uncoils, his hands clenching and unclenching on the edge of the bench, his breath finally juddering out in uneven, rough bursts. He closes his eyes and just breathes for a little while, until he is back in the world.

“Garak. Did you...?” The doctor is breathless. He has not stopped his vigorous thrusting, but his arm is unsteady and shaking on Garak’s shoulder.

“Oh, _yes_ , Doctor.” The sigh emerges from his lungs in a contented, sticky burst of air. 

The doctor has clearly been holding back, because he suddenly shudders and groans and convulses. He pulses into Garak wildly, bending over him, pounding him down, losing all control. He bellows like a wild beast and thrusts the final brutal few strokes. Then, trembling, he half collapses onto Garak in a kind of unsteady embrace. Garak can feel the doctor’s racing heart slowing, his quaking breaths getting closer to normal. 

After a few beats, the doctor kisses Garak softly on the back of the head and gives him a light squeeze.

“Don’t feel that you need to get up right away, Doctor,” Garak says, half into the table. “It’s quite pleasant having you on top of me. Like a lumpy heated blanket.” 

The doctor’s snort of laughter is a pleasant puff of air through Garak’s hair. 

“I’m happy to be your lumpy blanket for a while, but if we don’t clean up some of these fluids first, there’s going to be quite a mess on...” 

“Ensign Exham’s Samerian tweed trousers.” 

“Exactly.”

“There are some scraps in the...”

*

The doors whoosh open, and Ensign Exham’s imaginary trousers never have the chance to be saved. Garak looks up, startled, from Ensign Exham’s real ones in his hand, where they have not been commanding his full attention for the past few minutes at least. 

It’s Doctor Bashir. Of course it is. 

“Hello, Garak. Are you busy?”

“Not particularly, Doctor. To what do I owe the pleasure?” Garak doesn’t get up from his work bench. It wouldn’t be...prudent to get up, at least not for a few minutes. “Do you have some trousers that need hemming? You’ve come at the right time. I could finish them for you within the hour.”

“That bad, eh?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“I’ve been having a quiet day too. Absolutely nothing’s happened. I just finished my shift and thought I’d see if you wanted company.” 

“That would be most welcome, Doctor. I’m afraid I’m at a critical juncture with this hem, but if you don’t mind serving yourself I’ll invite you to get something from the replicator in the back.” 

“And a red leaf tea for you?” 

“Ah, Doctor, you read my mind. Exactly what I wanted.”

**Author's Note:**

> So I guess in this universe, male Cardassians don't produce any semen when they orgasm while being fucked. Or maybe it stays inside. That's why Julian is confused. 
> 
> People don’t seem to listen to podcasts anymore in the 24th Century, so they have to find other ways to relieve their boredom while performing monotonous tasks. I guess using your imagination is as good as anything else, though personally I'd find it hard to be productive.
> 
> Comments, criticisms, and kudos are all very much encouraged!


End file.
